Biographies and CVs are fucking terrible, dates and places when and where arses were kissed.
Lies were told.
Someone got screwed,
someone fell in love,
This can’t maintain solidarity, this is just here to serve and to give, to deliver, not important, not relevant, words and images and sounds are going somewhere else, not to an identity.
What’s left then? Without the prompts to approve? With no guide to tell you what’s right or wrong, how do you tell what’s good or bad? The biography is supposed to assure you but what if it tells you to fuck off and be real?
There it is, just you, the egg of it all.
’30 years away can make a seaman’s eyes, a roundhouse man’s eyes flow out with water, salt water.’ said Don Van Vliet, in a song.
and that’s what it’s all about.
the moss garden 